


Going Down In History

by pinkfire



Category: NCT (Band), WayV (Band)
Genre: Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Ghost Sex, I'm going to hell pt2, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Masochism, M/M, wtf wtf wtf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25161220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkfire/pseuds/pinkfire
Summary: He wants to feel the other side, and he wants to feel it hard.
Relationships: Wong Kun Hang | Hendery/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun
Comments: 19
Kudos: 153





	Going Down In History

“This is _bogus_ ,” Yangyang gripes, dropping a damp ghost tour pamphlet into a rusted garbage can. He, himself is soaking wet, hair matted to his forehead and dripping into his eyes.

“I told you to stay at the hotel,” Xiaojun sighs, hugging his coat tighter around himself, shivering under the ruthless sheet of rain that’s pelting the tour group.

Yangyang presses his lips into a line, considering. “Yeah, whatever. I’m getting a taxi. Have fun with your ghosts, nerd.”

Xiaojun rolls his eyes when Yangyang shoulder-checks him on his way down the brick driveway.

It’s ten o’clock at night, and Xiaojun, along with the handful of other people who are crazy enough to stand outside in the pouring rain for a ghost tour, are near the large entrance of a supposedly haunted mansion. Wong Manor, it’s called. Standing tall and wide, looming over jagged tree branches, it’s pouring rainwater from its windowsills and roof, watering the overgrown bushes below. There is some eerie energy around it, something that makes Xiaojun feel like he’s _far_ from home.

He’s a sucker for horror and thrill, so this tourist attraction is right up his alley. Apparently, Yangyang doesn’t feel the same.

“Sorry, sorry!” a boy with jet black hair is running up the driveway, surprisingly not slipping over the wet, eroded concrete beneath his feet. He’s wearing _dress shoes_. “I found the keys,” he announces with pride, jingling a loop of keys with a little skull keychain attached to it in the air. He must be the tour guide. He jams a key into the ornate doorknob that’s attached to a set of tall mahogany doors and pushes them open, letting them slowly part and whine on their rusting hinges.

The tour group scrambles inside, some sneakers squeaking over the well-kept hardwood floors. They must have been replaced at one point. The foyer is grand and old-fashioned, featuring a carpeted spiral staircase that swirls toward a loft with delicately crafted wooden banisters, a metal chandelier with candlewax dried and frozen in its effort to drip over the side of its candleholder, out-of-use sconces bolted to dark Victorian wallpaper. There are a few modern lights crafted into the high ceiling, interrupting the old feel and poking holes into the immersion. Broken immersion aside, that eerie feeling under Xiaojun’s skin buzzes more inside the mansion.

“I’m Hendery. I’m going to be your tour guide tonight,” Hendery starts, shrugging his damp coat off and draping it over the railing like he lives here. “Welcome to Wong Manor. Are you ready to shit yourselves?” Just when he says that, the heavy doors slam shut, startling a few in the room. Probably a mechanism set up for theatrics. Yangyang isn’t wrong about these things being bogus, but Xiaojun is just here to experience history and hear some (hopefully true) horror stories from the past.

A crackling noise comes from Hendery’s backside, accompanied by a stern, staticky voice. “Hendery, this is _not_ the eighteen plus tour. Watch your language.” He rolls his eyes and reaches toward the back of his waist, unclipping a walkie-talkie from his belt and flicking the off switch.

Hendery must be dressed to match the timeframe that this place was built, wearing a flowy button-up tucked into beige slacks. It suits him scarily well, Xiaojun could say he fell right out of the 1800s. His face is a classic handsome, with a defined jawline and wide eyes, hair that’s parted and resting over his cheekbones. It was likely styled before, but now it’s flattened with rainwater.

“Anyway,” Hendery continues, leaning against the stair rail casually. He looks at home, but that’s probably because he’s given many tours here. “This mansion was built specifically for the mayor of this town in 1884. He was a corrupt man, did what he could for power. Throughout the 1900s, people who moved into this place reported a man about yay high,” he pauses to hold his palm a foot over his own head, “with a top hat kept knocking their vases over. They assumed that was Mr. Wong.” He huffs a subtle laugh, raking his hand through his damp mess if hair. “Let’s hope he’s burning in hell, and not in this mansion with us today.” The way he says it, it seems like he has a personal problem with the man. “If you happen to see anything strange, like a shadow sliding across the wall, even an apparition, well, let’s hope it’s one of the projectors. We’re gonna move on to the dining area, any questions?”

They stop in some rooms, the kitchen, the living area, a few guest rooms (there are too many wooden doors lined up in the long corridors to explore every one), and Hendery has a story for each room. Stories of bloody murder, disease, miscarriage, abuse, one much more lighthearted story about the mansion’s cat. Xiaojun’s goosebumps grow with each stop.

“This is the last room we’ll be seeing tonight,” Hendery says, pushing a large door open and chuckling as the tour group boos. He’s very charismatic, so the tour has been entertaining. The only one who doesn’t seem to mind that the tour is coming to an end is the main target of all the jump scares.

Xiaojun is the last to file into the room, and when he does, a shiver rakes through his spine. If he were a medium, he would absolutely say that most the spectral activity in this house is rooted here. Something doesn’t sit right with him. In appearances, this is just a normal early 1900s bedroom. It has light blue wallpaper with a nice design on it, a simple canopy bed with white sheets, an old-fashioned wardrobe. Maybe, it simply feels off because of the wind that whistles by the window, the ajar door that creaks without even moving.

“This was the bedroom of Mr. Wong’s son,” Hendery starts, running his palm down one of the wooden bedposts. “ _Wong Kunhang_.” The name rolls off his tongue fluidly, familiar. “His story was the most tragic.

“All was well until he discovered his sexuality at thirteen. His father was far from understanding. He got angry and sent him to the town’s blacksmith to do work. There, he was beaten until he did things right, then went home to get beaten for _nothing_. This continued until he was 20, when he contracted the deadly flu from the 1918 pandemic. He slipped into a coma first, then he was buried, and when he woke up, well, no one knew. They found his fingernails in the wood of his coffin.”

The room is silent. Xiaojun is hugging his coat tightly to himself, trying to keep his shivers at bay. He thinks there’s a draft.

Hendery’s facing the window now, and Xiaojun can swear he hears a sniffle. But Hendery’s face is dry when he turns around. “Well, that concludes our tour. If you took any pictures with orbs or apparitions in them, make sure to tag us on Twitter.”

As they’re walking out of the mansion, Xiaojun, the history nerd that he is, decides to fact-check the stories that were told. He searches up “1918 Wong Kunhang” first, nearly dropping his phone onto the floor when the page loads. The boy’s face shown in black and white is _Hendery’s_. The same jawline, the same wide eyes, the same black hair.

Xiaojun isn’t the type to run along and tell his friends about it, saying “it was such a crazy coincidence.” His curiosity is piqued.

When the rest of the group is out the door, Xiaojun stops in the foyer and turns to Hendery. Hendery has his head cocked to the side, brow furrowed. “Did you leave something in one of the rooms?”

Xiaojun rubs the back of his neck and purses his lips, unsure how to approach this. “You… are you Kunhang?” It feels idiotic when the words leave his mouth. Kunhang died a hundred years ago.

But Hendery nods. “Formerly, yes.”

Xiaojun’s heart sinks. Hendery must be messing with him, right? The doors slam shut the way they did before, this time making Xiaojun jump, his heart kicking up fast. He really hopes that Hendery is telling the truth, because that would be goddamn _cool_. “Ha ha, funny.”

Hendery reaches forward and holds Xiaojun’s wrist, and he’s fucking cold, almost like ice. Xiaojun flinches. “I can prove it.” But why would he want to?

“If you were Kunhang, why wouldn’t you be denying it?”

Hendery giggles, slipping his cold fingers up Xiaojun’s sleeve. “Because, you’re really cute. Momma taught me to tell the truth when I’m flirting.”

Xiaojun gently jerks his hand away and tucks it into his coat pocket, blushing. Hendery is honestly really attractive, but this situation is just crazy. “You’re weird, dude. How would you prove that, anyway?”

“Stay still,” Hendery instructs, bringing two fingers up and sweeping them down Xiaojun’s forehead, over the straight bridge of his nose. Xiaojun can’t wonder what the hell he’s doing for long, because his limbs feel like static, then he slips out of consciousness.

When he comes to, he’s in a bathtub, soaking in warm water that smells like rosemary. He looks down at his body, only to realize that this body isn’t _his_. It’s much leaner, tanner. There are black tendrils of hair in front of his eyes. Then he notices that his body is bruised, badly. There are purple and yellowing blotches travelling up both arms, down both legs, one particularly awful bruise blooming over his rib. _That_ hurts. It’s throbbing with sharp pulses of pain under the pressure of the water. It must be broken.

He looks up to assess his surroundings and finds himself in an old, Victorian bathroom. Marble floors, golden accents, monogrammed towels. A mirror is propped against the opposite wall, a web of cracks slicing though the glass. Using this mirror, Xiaojun sees that he’s in Hendery’s body. He also sees that he looks nearly dead. His face is gaunt and pale, undereye circles dark as coal, nose red and stuffed. There’s a sheen of moisture on his skin, and it looks a lot more like cold sweat than steam from the bath.

When he tries to take in a breath, his throat burns and his lungs stutter, heavy and full of liquid. Then he’s coughing, a thick, black, tar-like liquid sputters out, drips down his chin, dilutes in the bathwater. His breaths are drowning in tar that tastes like blood. Before he can call for help, his vision is going dark around the edges and he faints.

Xiaojun wakes up again with a gasp, clinging to a muscular form. He feels a gentle hand petting his hair. “I just shared one of my memories with you,” Hendery explains. He’s cradling Xiaojun in his lap, sat on the hardwood floor of the foyer. “Is that enough proof?”

“Yeah, it’s enough. But why are you here? As a tour guide, I mean.”

“I got tired of hiding, and they started using my house as a damn tourist attraction.” A deep laugh rumbles against Xiaojun’s cheek. “So, that was an opportunity.”

“Oh.” Xiaojun wraps his arms around Hendery’s cool waist.

“You aren’t scared of me?”

“Hell no. I think it’s cool.”

For as long as he can remember, Xiaojun has been obsessed with anything paranormal or occult. He watched horror movies daily, explored abandoned buildings, used ouija boards. At some point, his obsession became somewhat _sexual_. He touched himself in those abandon buildings, hoped that one day his ouija boards would summon a cute ghost boy who would fuck him. Those goosebumps that rise on his skin with fear are usually accompanied by a hard-on. He wants to _feel_ the other side, and he wants to feel it hard.

“You really think I’m cute?” he asks, a flush rising to his cheeks.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Would you…” he pauses, pressing himself closer to Hendery’s form. “Would you fuck me?”

He feels a twitch underneath him, either from shock or being turned on or both. “Absolutely.” Hendery laughs. “Oh, you’re _crazy_.” His voice is much deeper when he says that. It makes a shiver rake itself up Xiaojun’s spine.

Hendery carries Xiaojun to his bedroom so quickly that it makes his head spin. Before his lightheadedness can subside, he’s dropped onto the white sheets of Hendery’s bed. This bed is definitely an antique, he thinks. It’s firm and far from comfortable. Goosebumps flood over Xiaojun’s skin, and he wonders if this room feels unsettling because it’s filled with Hendery’s antique rosemary scent. Hendery’s already peeling his clothes off, so Xiaojun scrambles to do the same, dropping each garment over the side of the bed. Now that he’s not wearing his coat, he realizes that it’s freezing in this room, which puts him in awe over how hard he is already.

Hendery crawls over Xiaojun’s body, running his cool fingers over Xiaojun’s side, rousing goosebumps even more. “Are you scared, baby?” he laughs, cold breath fanning against Xiaojun’s neck.

“No, you’re _cold._ ”

Hendery hums, seemingly amused as he pinches at one of Xiaojun’s erect nipples. Already sensitive, Xiaojun whines and arches against Hendery’s firm body. Hendery dips his head lower, running the cold and wet flat of his tongue over his nipple. It’s already so overwhelming, the temperature and pleasure making him shiver violently. “C-cold,” Xiaojun whines, running his hands into Hendery’s hair and tugging at the nappy locks. Hendery growls, the sound is so deep that it’s almost demonic, and starts kissing up Xiaojun’s neck, stopping at his hot pulse and sucking hard. It hurts, but it hurts good, eliciting a cry of pleasure. Hendery must be rough, and he’s starting to feel a lot more like a vengeful spirit, but god, Xiaojun finds that _hot_.

He doesn’t even ask permission before forcing his fingers between Xiaojun’s warm, plush lips, parting them and playing with his tongue. Xiaojun hums and sucks, licking at his cool skin gratefully.

“Damn,” Hendery sighs, nuzzling against the bright red mark he just sucked onto Xiaojun’s skin. “I never knew a _human_ could be so… so shameless. So crazy. You’re into this?” he asks with a condescending tone, pressing his thumb hard against the mark, making Xiaojun squirm underneath him. He takes his fingers out so he can respond.

“Yeah,” Xiaojun breathes. “Be rough. I want to feel you for weeks.”

“Painslut,” Hendery chuckles, leaning in for a kiss. His lips are surprisingly soft, pursuing Xiaojun’s hungrily, like he hasn’t had a kiss in decades, and he probably hasn’t. He’s already slipping his tongue into the warmth of Xiaojun’s mouth, and he tastes like mint. Mint and _blood_ , the same blood that he was coughing into a tub earlier. The taste is somehow intoxicating, driving Xiaojun to play with Hendery’s tongue. Without warning, Hendery drives a finger into Xiaojun’s heat, causing him to gasp and jerk his hips forward.

Hendery pulls away from the kiss, bringing a string of saliva with him, to look at Xiaojun’s expression. Despite the temperature, Xiaojun has a red flush in his cheeks. He’s pumping his finger in and out, the sweet friction making Xiaojun whimper. Xiaojun’s insanely turned on right now, with his skin tingling, heart pounding in his chest, dick rock-hard against his belly.

“I’m surprised you’re so tight for me, baby. I thought a horny little bitch like you would have a fucked-up hole.” He shoves another finger in and thrusts them hard and fast.

Xiaojun is reeling, grasping onto Hendery’s shoulders and whining, writhing against the sheets. “I’m just h-horny for you.”

“So, this is mine to fuck up?”

“God, _yes_.”

“Such a good boy,” Hendery praises, adding a third finger. He’s ramming them into Xiaojun’s heat so hard that it’s painful, but it’s making his cock twitch, leaking precum onto his abdomen. The sounds are lewd, Hendery’s cold palm clapping against Xiaojun’s perineum, spit squelching against his fingers. Xiaojun’s walls burn when Hendery pulls his fingers out, so he whimpers pathetically.

Hendery smirks and spits into his hand, stroking his cock and wetting it up. It’s honestly huge, hanging between his thighs even in full hardness, heavy and long. Big dicks must have been a thing in the early 1900s.

He leans over Xiaojun’s delicate frame again, lining his tip up with his entrance. Xiaojun braces himself, grasping and pulling at the sheets, biting his lip, but that’s not enough to prepare him for the feeling of Hendery’s thick cock slamming into his yielding asshole. He screams out with pain and pleasure, hot tears springing to his eyes. It feels fucking amazing, his walls stretched around cold, girthy cock. This is the fullest he’s felt in his life, rim pulsing hot around Hendery’s base. He can feel cock nearly pressing against his diaphragm. “Hendery,” he whispers, voice wavering with oncoming sobs.

“That’s not my real name,” Hendery says, pulling out slowly and slamming back in.

Xiaojun cries out and arches at an inhuman angle. “Kunhang!” he moans, and the name is heavenly on his tongue.

“There we go,” Hendery purrs, pressing the cold tip of his nose against Xiaojun’s clavicle. He starts a pace of pulling out and slamming back into Xiaojun’s lithe body, making his head nearly hit the headboard each time. The old, wooden-framed bed is creaking incessantly, adding an instrument to the symphony of Xiaojun’s slutty moans and cries, skin hard against skin, Hendery’s heavy breaths.

Hendery turns his head against Xiaojun’s chest and chuckles breathlessly, saying, “pervert.” He presses his nose against Xiaojun’s skin again, slowing his thrusts and explaining through neck kisses, “one of the butlers is watching us, beautiful. How does that make you feel? How does it feel to be seen getting your pretty little hole demolished?”

Xiaojun doubts he can form words right now, trembling and mumbling nonsense, but his heavy tongue manages to form, “good. You fuck me so _good_.”

Hendery hums contently and grabs Xiaojun’s thigh, manhandling his leg until his calf is pressed against Hendery’s shoulder. Then Hendery is picking up his pace again, thrusting ruthlessly into his heat and grunting with the effort. The new angle has his cock pressing against Xiaojun’s prostate so deliciously, making him spurt precum into his navel and babble uselessly. Hendery stops thrusting to press deep into Xiaojun, and he can feel hot, sticky liquid jetting into him.

“Oh, Kunhang,” Xiaojun moans, sobbing with pleasure. Tears are streaming down his red cheeks. “K-kunhang, please.”

“Wanna cum, baby?”

Xiaojun nods eagerly, whining when Hendery pulls out, leaving his hole wide, throbbing, dripping cum.

“Not yet,” Hendery says, jamming three fingers past Xiaojun’s pliant, stretched-out rim. The slide is a lot smoother with cum lubing it up, squelching past his fingers and dripping onto the sheet. He starts to press a fourth finger in, and it’s not too difficult, since his cock was thicker than four fingers. Xiaojun is panting, letting out small, exhausted whines here and there. His dick is throbbing hard against his belly, begging for release. He almost complains, but Hendery is forcing his thumb in, pressing his entire hand into his heat.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Xiaojun sobs, clenching down on Hendery’s wrist.

Hendery chuckles at his reaction and pulls his hand out so he can ball it into a fist, struggling to push it back in. It slips back in unexpectedly, making Hendery’s fist fly forward so hard that it feels like Xiaojun was just punched in the ribs. Fuck. He was just punched in the ribs. Hendery’s arm is inside him up to his elbow.

He screams and balls his hands into fists so tight that he draws blood with his fingernails. His blood is buzzing in his ears, pulsing in his veins, and all Xiaojun can feel is Hendery, no, _Kunhang_. His senses are overcome with Kunhang, Kunhang, Kunhang. He feels cold fingers around his cock, stroking, then there’s a cold tongue flicking at his slit, and his orgasm is approaching fast.

He screams Kunhang’s name when he cums, trembling around his arm, legs twitching. It’s so strong that it makes his ears ring, his tongue goes numb and he can’t even tell if it’s inside his mouth right now. He looks destroyed, and he _is_ destroyed, still trembling against the sheets, limbs splayed uselessly, tears and drool coating his face. It takes a few seconds for him to open his eyes, realize that Kunhang’s arm has already left his body.

“You’re so, so pretty,” Kunhang says sweetly, stroking Xiaojun’s cheek with the back of his hand. “I want you to stay with me. Forever.”

And before Xiaojun can blink, the silver blade of a knife is hurtling toward his face.


End file.
